


The sympathetic drunk and the unwilling sick

by Peoplesing



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: M/M, Sharing Body Heat, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-27
Updated: 2013-02-27
Packaged: 2017-12-03 19:52:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/701980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Peoplesing/pseuds/Peoplesing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For once, it's Grantaire that helps Enjolras.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The sympathetic drunk and the unwilling sick

**Author's Note:**

> Second fic ever. I would like any tips to improve my writing, please.

“You cannot take away our freedom anymore!” he yells along the cheers of the crowd. It's yet another protests for the benefits of the republic. Because, in April 1832, as the sun is blinding the place, France isn't a democracy. The people don't recognize it, l'ABC doesn't recognize it, and Enjolras certainly doesn't accept it.

“For we are French, and we answer to our right!”

The revolutionist is standing on what might be a barrel, eying the masses with pride. He choose to do the protest in front of the Panthéon, a symbolic place for all of them. And it's full. The whole place is full of believers like them, longing the walls, the columns and the railings of the Panthéon. He can see his friends within. Combeferre and Courfeyrac are on the outskirts, checking for trouble on the outside as much on the inside. One push and it can all go wrong. Bossuet is just behind him, probably making sure he doesn't fall (knowing his luck, he'll probably be the one falling). As for Jehan, he is singing amongst them all, holding the national flag.

“Our right to be free!” It's all overwhelming.

Feuilly and Bahorel are carrying two children on their shoulders (one of them is Gavroche). They would probably be crushed by legs and boots without the 2 men. He thinks they're laughing, shouting: “République! République!”. As for Joly and Grantaire, they aren't there. But it was to be expected. Joly has class, and he's the only one who wouldn't dare to skip it, even for his beloved revolution. As for the latter, when can you ever count on him? He's probably sleeping somewhere.

But he lets it slide. He always does when it comes to Grantaire.

“Our right to be equals!”

Enjolras is a man of democracy, a man of the people. And today, they are rising for themselves. Misery will fade! Poverty will cease! It'll be liberty for all!

“Our right to be brothers!”

The sounds are deafening, adrenaline is coursing through his veins...

Until the gunshots. 

The cheers turn into screams of fear and pain. In the turmoil, he can the guards yelling orders “contain the mob”, “get the leader”, “kill if necessary”. The people scatters, or, more likely, they try, going in every direction. It's pure chaos.

Everyone runs. The tension and the expectation disappeared in a snap. It isn't about revolution and hope anymore. It's about surviving.

The thing is,Enjolras isn't a coward, but he isn't a hothead either. He knows when to admit defeat, and without the support of the Parisians, l'ABC will be seriously outnumbered. 

And the police seems set on him. 

So he runs. He leaves the Panthéon through the crowd and he passed avenue St Michel in a hurry. People are pushed along the way, complaining and insulting him and his rude manner, but he can't stop. Is he being followed? He's pretty sure,now. He can hear calls from afar, ally or foe,he doesn't know, but doesn't dare to turn around. He's driven by pure instinct.

He starts longing the seine, seeking a way out. But as he hears the sound of guns, as he feels a bullet barely brushing him, he knows what he has to do and he doesn't hesitate. He abruptly stops, makes a 90° turn, steps onto the guardrail before taking a big breath and jumps.

The water is so cold he almost screams in pain. It's dirty too, and dark like mud. Unfortunately, he doesn't have the luxury of choosing. He stays underwater, hoping to be concealed. He can feel the current carrying him away (not too far he hopes). When the urges becomes too much, and breathing is an absolute priority, only Enjolras allows himself a gulp of air. He's near the river bank, he finds out, after getting used to the sunlight, and he needs to swim under the nearest bridge to cover himself. He's almost almost it's the Pont Neuf, seeing the heads carved into stone, contorted in extreme scowls or manic laughters. They're judging him. He still can hear yells around, on the bridge, on the streets...

He also deciphers gunshots. Oh God, please don't let anyone be hurt, he prays. 

Even hidden under the bridge, he isn't so hidden. Three times he has to take a deep breath, swim under and cover himself with sludge not to be noticed by the police. Three times he succeeds. By the time he judges the guards gone, it's nightfall. 

Enjolras is shivering so hard he can barely haul himself on the deck. His hands aren't even red anymore (more like a sickly shade of purple). He must look pitiful, and God, the smell.

He stumbles in direction of St Michel, soaked to the bone, his legs splashing at every pace.

Notre Dame's black form's is standing through the night. She seems to be mocking him, her bells ringing like a ironic laughter. 

It could be worst.

As if waiting for him, the rains starts to fall, as cold as the water from the Seine. And not little drops, no, it's like full buckets being thrown on him over and over again. It's like everything is against him today.

And Enjolras is so tired.

It's to the point that something as simple as moving has become a torture. 1-2, 1-2... Everything hurts. How long as he walked? He's still so far from his apartment. The night is dark and the wind, the rain makes everything worse. For how long as he been moving? 10 minutes? Half an hour?

Suddenly, in the dark, a shadow moves. Enjolras freezes. He doesn't want to be seen like this. It could be a guard or a snitch or a thief... 

“Enjolras?”

He blanches even more, paralyzed by fear. The shade goes towards him, painfully slowly. The shivering blond takes a step backwards. It grows even closer, getting menacing... And it falls in a deafening sound. Enjolras is still stunned, eyes wide and trying to decipher anything, before he sighed. He'd recognize him anywhere.

“Grantaire.”

Grantaire, it's him, pulls his head and laughs loudly, at him or at himself, neither of them are sure. He's wasted. Maybe not puking-his-guts-drunk, but enough to be loud-mouth and high-spirited. Those moments are few. He's usually hungover or besotted by the liquor. 

“By Socrates's beard. I'm sorry Apollo but what happened to you? You look like you fell into the Seine. Ah!”

Enjolras remains silent.

“No, you're serious? What happened this afternoon?” The drunkard stumbles slightly, getting up with quite some difficulty.

“You... You weren't at at the protest and and it tu- turned bad.” He's stammering. Enjolras, the orator is definitely not used to stammering. The cold must have gotten into his bones.

“Yeah, I dunno. Feuilly told me about that a few days ago, but I was busy.”

The blond snorts. 

“It's true! I actually went to classes. But I haven't been to Musain today. I was at La Poulette tonight.”

“Well, the protest got bad. The national guard flipped off for nothing so... We had to retreat.”

“You ran?” Enjolras can hear the disbelief in R's voice. He hates it. 

“We were unarmed and we... We were not ready.”

“Of course Apollo.” The tone sounds ironic.

“Really I-” He sneezes.

He looks at him with sudden concern. It's weird, with his cheeks scarlet red and his blue eyes wide as saucers.

“You don't look good, Enjolras. You should come with me. I don't live far from here.”

How ironic indeed.

“I-I re-really shouldn't.”

“You can barley speak”, his hand grips one of his own, a contrast of heat that turns into almost unbearable pain, to the point he has to bite his lips to keep himself from moaning, “You're freezing and you're almost blue. Please, Enjolras, let me help you.”

He hesitates, but he doesn't exactly have any argument against the proposition. His apartment is so far away, at leas 500m...

“Come on” R exclaims, before letting out a hiccup,“you're going to freeze out here.”

“I should... Go see the others... Joly...”

“You'll probably be dead by the time we arrive there. Just let's warm you up and if you're still feeling ill, I'll go get him. Okay?”

He presents his hand, wobbling a little.

Enjolras's mouth, is trembling to the point he can't even utter out a word. He's right. So he takes the drunkard's hand, and Grantaire pulls forward, already guiding him to the next street. They walked fast, fighting the falling water. He stopped in front of a red colored door with peeled of paint. By stopping, the inebriated man struggles a little, Making Enjolras stumble in return.

Inside the lights are grim and almost all the steps of the staircase are creaking. The sounds mixes with the pleasant drumming of the rain, making a weird symphony.

They climb it up with some difficulty before finding the fifth floor: Grantaire's tiny apartment.

The room is sparse, mostly. There's a bed,a surprisingly good one, filled with feathers. Along with it there's a table with a kettle and cutlery on it, a bucket for hygiene and a door less wardrobe.

But the room was far from empty. The walls are supporting canvases from all sizes. There are bits and pieces from the artist's life: Paris, place st Michel, the café Musain, the University, the ABC, Enjolras...

Enjolras finds it hard to properly walk, wet as he is, for the floor's almost covered with sketches and doodles.

“Make yourself comfortable” Grantaire states, falling roughly on the mattress and kicking his shoes off at the same time. The blond hesitates, shrugging off his coat slowly, not sure where to put it. The smashed man, feeling his emotion, tug him forward and accelerate the process. He suspends them to a wooden bar by the window. And here he is, Enjolras, shirtless, trembling like a leaf in fall. If he isn't icy cold, he will probably have blushed. Nobody has ever seen like this, not even his roommate. He is modest. The drunk hands him a piece of fabric and he starts to dry himself off..

When he straightens his head up, two pairs of eyes meet. He notices how shinning the blue eyes were, how flush his cheeks look. He's probably really high.

“What?” the interrogation comes out, strangled.

“Your... Your lips are still blue.” The brown haired replies, roughly.

He coughs. As for Enjolras, he tries to cover himself even more with the fabric.

“You should wear something warm, and take that off.”

“Do you have anything in replacement?”

The drunk smirks, gets up and goes to the wardrobe. By digging through the mess in there, he finally finds a long white shirt that only looks slightly rumpled, before handing to the blond. The said man looks at it for a while, looking a little skeptically at said shirt. Oh well, he hopes it's clean. He pulls the clothe on (and something so easy suddenly becomes so hard. He can barley flex his fingers. And god it hurts), pointedly not looking at the drunk man before taking off the rest of the soaked outfit. The shirt is a bit too big, stopping a little under his mid tights. But it's not wet. Then, he shakily sits on the bed, back leaning against the wall, pointedly not staring at the wasted man.

Grantaire sighs, so Enjolras looks up. He's looking outside the window, face open and contemplative. The moonlight really does him justice. He takes the time, just this once, to admire the irony of it. The artist turned into a masterpiece. R isn't a classical beauty. He looks more like a patchwork of little things, crude as an ensemble, but worth looking at. He takes some time to look at all those the details, like the fairness of his skin, highlighted by the moon or the shape of the long fingers, slightly curled with easiness. And those lips, teasing, begging to be ravished...

No.

Enjolras looks down again. He shouldn't be thinking of this. 

He gets into the bed, under the woolen blanket that itches his skin. Grantaire appears to snap out of his reveries and ends up mimicking him. 

It's awkward at first. The bed isn't obviously made for 2. If it's comfortable, he isn't. He can feel Grantaire's hot breath against his neck. And it hurts. Warmth is hurting him. His body is on fire. He tries to further himself from the other body, but he's already at the edge. Reasonably, he has to admit that even through the pain, he needs heat. And, here's warmth. Grantaire's hot (no pun intended) , and right now, it's all he's seeking. Unfortunately, he's a moral man, and this is Grantaire, the complete opposite of, morality. The complete opposite of Enjolras. He doesn't want to open up, doesn't want to show he cares. For he is Enjolras, isn't he? The rock, the marble statute. The cold and the cruel.

Yet, he isn't like that. It's just a facade, an ideal that he longs for. He isn't like that. And tonight, just tonight, sick as he is, he can allow himself, through the cold, and now the searing pain, the shivering and tension in his limbs. 

“You're freezing.” R said, his voice cutting the disagreeable silence.

It's true.

“I could help, you know.”

He knows how. He's not stupid. When the people don't have enough money to buy wood, or coal, they sleep next to each other, like lovers would do. The both of them, as students sometimes had to do so. They would never dare burn their books, for knowledge is power. He remembers he and Marius, and that wasn't a good experience. Grantaire probably did the same, more willingly, with other students from his art classes. 

“You don't look good. Enjolras, you could die.”

He knows R is waiting for permission. He is always waiting for permission. He hesitated, but another shiver comforts his decision. He turns over, his eyes seizing his.  
Enjolras nods, faintly.

The arm curling around his waist is searing hot. Their legs tangles themselves, naturally. They're almost chest to chest, face to face: he smells the alcohol in the brown haired man's breath. He wants to scowl but for once it's nice. He also smells something spicy, exotic, probably coming from the foreigner's market the man likes to go to. Grantaire loves that market and spends hours, purposely missing classes to draw figures in charcoal. 

“You're cold”

It's not a reproach. R's smiling.

“I'm freezing.” 

He bows down his head, nuzzling the crook of the other's man collarbone. Grantaire moans a little and tightens his grip on his hips. The blond in return holds on to the blanket.

Little by little, the shivers coursing the blond fades with time; it allows him to think a tiny bit better. It still hurts, everywhere. 

Around some time, the drunk falls asleep. He's snoring slightly, but nothing too loud or extreme. And he's so tired. Slowly and steadily, Enjolras lets himself being lulled into slumber.

 

When the morning comes, Enjolras doesn't want to wake up. He's warm everywhere and, for once at ease on the mattress. It's not his, that's obvious. His is hard, filled with straw. On the counterpart, his head hurts like hell. He just wants to go back to sleep.

“Ugh”.

“Morning, sleepy head.”

The voice comes from underneath him.

Enjolras is laying on Grantaire, shamelessly, his head on his chest, his knee between his legs. He should be embarrassed, but he follows instinct and harden is hold around his neck. He should be embarrassed, he should be disgusted. It's not proper.

But this is Grantaire.

And you're Enjolras, his head yells. 

“You look better.” The drunk said, gently. 

Yes, he's Enjolras, and he's still tired. For once, he won't listen to his head.

“Are you comfortable?”

This time, Enjolras can't help but blush, and by the burning sensation on his cheeks, it shows. 

Grantaire puts a hand on his forehead, mumbling about fever and Joly but the blond grabs his hand, interrupting him.

“Let's just go back to sleep.”

And the brunette complies willingly, bringing him even closer.

Let's go back to sleep.


End file.
